Celle Où Il Est La Vie C'est La Mort
by KingAleksander
Summary: John Watson attempts to survive after losing Sherlock. Rated M for suicide.


That was it, then. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, _John's_ consulting detective, was gone. It was hours before anyone found John, kneeling at the top of the cliff, staring off into the distance with unseeing eyes. Lestrade and Mycroft had picked him up, leading him over to a chopper where a medical duo was waiting to wrap him up in a shock blanket. They treated the small cuts on his hands from where they had climbed up, where he had clung as he looked for Sherlock over the edge, where he had beaten his fists against the ground until he realized Sherlock wasn't coming back.

None of this registered in his mind. His face was emotionless, his body compliant as the doctors moved him around. Then the chopper was in the air, but still he sat, strapped into a chair. He hadn't been given a headset. He presumed this was because they were talking about him. Or Sherlock.

John took in nothing as he was escorted back to Baker Street by Lestrade and Mycroft. The two men hung around the flat, talking amongst themselves as John sat in his chair clutching the Union Jack pillow he had claimed the day he moved in. Eventually they left and John was alone. It didn't occur to him until hours later that it would stay this way. Sherlock was gone.

John felt nothing for the next few weeks. He puttered around the flat on good days, days when he could imagine Sherlock was just out on a case. He made himself tea and sat at his computer, watching the insertion point blink mockingly at him from his blog.

The nights were the hardest. There was no violin or pacing or shouting at the telly. Two days after he was returned home-_no, not home, not anymore_ -John switched on the radio. He listened to a classical station and tried to pretend the violin pieces were Sherlock, hard at work on a case. This became too much and he changed it to a talk show station.

John touched nothing of Sherlock's. Everything that was his stayed in the place Sherlock had left it. John's things were sorted through and put away. His bedroom was spotless. He spent most of his time there, where nothing could remind him of Sherlock- nothing except the photo of the man on his dresser. They were smiling (a real smile from Sherlock, not the ones he used for his cases) without a care in the world. John felt privileged to have seen this side of the man.

Two weeks after The Incident, John became angry. He threw his favorite tea cup at the wall, punched a whole or two in the wall above the couch, and slammed the photo in his bedroom down on its face, cracking the glass. He stood at Sherlock's favorite window, watching the world pass by and cursing any higher powers that might exist. On bad days, he begged them to bring him back. He offered his own life for Sherlock's, offered anyone, anyone in the world to bring the man back.

The anger didn't last long. He laid on Sherlock's couch and closed his eyes, thinking about the man and all their adventures. His blog had been mysteriously erased after he had written about their last case together, leaving him with nothing but his memories. He forgot to eat, couldn't sleep (_please, God, let him live_). His limp returned, his shoulder ached, and his eyes were emotionless. The spark in his eyes (_Sherlock_) was gone.

Just when John was sure he couldn't possibly get better, he laughed. He was rifling through his Mind Flat (taken from Sherlock, of course) when he remembered a particularly funny memory- Sherlock Holmes, dressed in drag for a case. He had been called in for another one as they were heading home from fooling a cashier into telling them details of a murder when Lestrade called with another one. The look on Lestrade's face had been permanently etched into John's mind- shock, confusion, questioning, _interest_. Laughing, they had returned to Baker Street and Sherlock tore off the wig, kicked off the heels, and slumped onto the couch.

And so John Watson began his healing process. He focused on the happy memories, told himself everything was going to be fine, canceled his meetings with his therapist. He went for walks and talked to Sherlock's grave. He returned to his job at the hospital, albeit slowly, had lunch with Lestrade and Mycroft, and bought a new photo frame for the picture of himself and Sherlock.

He fooled everyone, even himself, into thinking he was happy. One evening, there was a knock at 221b, but he didn't answer it.

At the door was a leather-bound book with gold lettering. "The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson."

The next morning, Lestrade paid him a visit. The book was still outside the door. John didn't answer the door. Finally, Lestrade kicked it in. He checked the entire flat until he got to Sherlock's room. Written on the wall in yellow paint was a note.

__ I shall ever regard him as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known___. _

Laying on the bed was John Watson.

* * *

><p>The autopsy report told them he had stolen various drugs from the hospital and taken them all at once. He was buried next to Sherlock's grave.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock returned on a call from Mycroft, telling him to return to Baker Street at once. He followed John's lead that night after his brother left.<p>

* * *

><p>Together, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes lay in eternity, best friends, co-workers, partners in crime.<p> 


End file.
